When I saw him, I acknowledged to myself my weakness. Deep down in my
heart I had been longing, with a desire which was prayer, that I might
have some word from Lamoral.
"Cale--Cale, dear, come in." I caught his hand, which was not
outstretched to mine, to draw him in. "If we were n't the observed of
all in this court I would kiss you on the spot." He continued to stare
at me; he did not speak.
"Cale, forgive me for my hardness of heart--say you forgive me, for I
can't forgive myself; I was--"
He interrupted me, speaking quietly:
"I know what you was; you can't tell me nothin' 'bout _thet_, Marcia.
I ain't laid up nothin' you said to me, nor nothin' you said against
nobody; but I ain't fergiven yer fer leavin' me without knowin' of your
whereabouts--
"Cale, I had to be alone--"
"I don't care whether you had to be alone or not," he said testily;
"you might have let me know where you was goin'. You was n't fit to go
alone, nor be alone. My hair 's turned gray thinkin' what might
happen. Where was you?" he demanded sternly.
"I was in Iberville."
I led him unresisting into the back room; it was my turn to place some
one in the rocking-chair.
"Iberville! How in thunder did you get to Iberville when you did n't
go on the train?"
"How did you know I did n't go on the train?"
"The baggage-master told me. How did you go?"
"In the apple-boat."
"Wal, I 'm stumped. How long did you stay there?"
"Nearly four weeks. Why?"
"Why? Because I 'd been doing detective work on my own account. (How
my heart sank at those words; Mr. Ewart had not attempted to find me
then!). I 've been doin' it for the last six weeks. This is the third
time I 've been in New York."
"But not here?"
"Yes, here--in this very house. I give Mis' Beaseley the credit; she
knows how to hold her tongue. I see she ain't told you."
"No. But you have n't been here since I 've been in the house?"
"No, I just got here to-day."
"How did you happen to come this third time, Cale?"
"I come because the Doctor told me to try it again here--"
"The Doctor? Is he at home?"
"Guess he is by this time; I left him at Lamoral yesterday--"
"At Lamoral?" On hearing that word, a trembling I could not control
seized upon me. If only Cale would speak of Mr. Ewart!
"Yes, Lamoral. I 've been lyin' right and left to Angelique an'
Pierre, an' Marie, an' Mere Guillardeau an' all the folks 'round that's
been inquirin'; but I didn't lie to the Doctor--not much!"
"How--how did the Doctor happen to be in Lamoral?"
"Guess you fergot he said he 'd like enough come back by the C.P."
I was silent. I saw that Cale did not intend to speak Mr. Ewart's name
first. He was leaving it to me.
"Look here, Marcia, I 'm goin' to talk to you for once in my life like
a Dutch uncle. I don't mean to live through another six weeks like
those I 've been through, if I should live to be a hundred."
"I am sorry, Cale, to have been the cause of any anxiety, any suffering
on your part--but I, too, suffered--and far more than you can ever
know." I spoke bitterly.
"I ain't denyin' you suffered--but there 's others to consider; others
have suffered, too, I guess, in a way _you_ don't know nothin' about,
bein' a woman."
"What do you mean, Cale?" I asked, trying to make him speak Mr. Ewart's
name.
"Mean? Marcia Farrell, you know what I mean. Ain't you got a woman's
heart beatin' somewhere in your bosom?"
"Oh, Cale, don't!"
"I 've got to, Marcia; you 've got to see things different, or you 'll
rue the day you ever blinded yourself to facts."
"Is Mr. Ewart ill?"
"Ill?" There was a curious twitch to his mouth as he repeated that
word. "Wal, it depends on what you call 'ill'. That's a pretty mild
word for some sorts of diseases--"
"Oh, Cale, tell me quick--don't keep me waiting any longer--"
"Any longer for what?"
"You know, Cale, I want to hear of him--know about him--"
"Oh, you do, do you? Wal, it 's pretty late in the day for you to show
some feelin'. Look here, Marcia, I ain't goin' to meddle. I meddled
once thirty years ago when I tried to persuade your mother she loved
George Jackson, an' I 've lived to curse the day I did it. I ain't
goin' to fall inter the same trap _this_ time, you bet yer life on
thet; but I 'm goin' to speak my mind 'fore I leave you here. Will you
answer me one plain question, an' answer it straight?"
"I 'll try to."
"_Do_ you think different from what you did? Have you come to see
things any different from what you put 'em to me?"
"Yes."
"Wal, thet's to the point; now we can talk. The Doctor and Ewart was
talkin' this over 'fore I come away; I heard every word. I was right
there, and they asked me to be. Gordon Ewart told the Doctor that when
he fust see him aboard ship, that was nineteen years ago, he made his
acquaintance because he knew he was the man who had brought you inter
this world. He never let him go. He kept in touch with him. He come
to be his closest friend. An' he never told that he, Gordon Ewart, is
the one that puts that money regularly into the Doctor's hands, without
his knowin' who it comes from, for the sake of helpin' others--"
"But he did not think of me." I could not help it; I spoke bitterly.
"No. He did n't want to think of you. He wanted to ferget there was
anybody or anything in this world to remind him of what he 'd suffered
from Happy Morey; an' he tried his best. An' he told the Doctor that
when he 'd thought he 'd conquered, when he come to see things
different too, he come back to settle in the old manor an' carry out
his ideas. An' the very fust night, he found you there. He said he
knew then, he couldn't get away from his past; it was livin' right
there along with him.
"Marcia, I ain't meddlin', and mebbe I 'm to blame; but when I told you
what I did, I done for the best as I thought. The Doctor done for the
best as he thought. He believed you were Ewart's daughter, and he see
what we all could n't help seein'--"
"What, Cale?" I longed to hear from Cale's lips that he had seen Mr.
Ewart's love for me.
"You _know_, Marcia Farrell, I ain't goin' ter tell you. The Doctor
said he thought fust along, it was because Ewart knew he was your
father; but he said his eyes was opened mighty sudden--an' it 'bout
made him sick, for he thinks a sight of you, Marcia. I see from the
fust how things was driftin' with George, and as him an' me had
recognized one 'nother from the fust, an' as he did n't say he knew
you, I kept still. I was n't goin' to meddle, an' I ain't goin' to
meddle now--only I 'm goin' straight off to tell him where you are."
"But he has n't tried to find me--"
"No, nor he never will. Your mother 'bout killed him when he was a
boy, an' he is n't goin' to run after you who has 'bout killed him
again as a man. You don't know nothin' what you 've done. I 've been
through hell with him these last six weeks, an' I went through it with
him once before twenty-eight years ago, an' that hell compared with
this was like a campfire to a forest-roarer.-- Now you know."
"Cale--Cale, what have I done?"
"You 've done what will take the rest of your life to undo. I ain't
goin' to meddle, I tell you, but I 'm tellin' you just as things stand.
My part's done--for I 've found you; an' I 'm goin' to tell him so."
He stood up; as it were, shook himself together, and without any
ceremony started for the door.
"Cale, don't go yet--I want to tell you; you don't see my position--"
"Position be hanged. I guess folks that find their lives hangin' by a
thread don't stop to argify much 'bout 'position'; they get somewhere
where they can _live_--thet 's all they want."
He was at the front door by this time. I grasped his arm and held it
tight.
"You will come again, Cale, you must."
"I 'm goin' home to Lamoral as quick as the Montreal express can get me
there. I can't breathe here in this hole!"
He loosened his shirt collar and took off his coat. It was an
unseasonable day in November--an Indian summer day with the mercury at
eighty-four. The life of the East Side was flooding the streets. He
turned to me as he stood on the low step. "I hope it won't be goodby
for another six weeks, Marcia."
"Cale, oh, Cale--"
He was off down the court with a long stride peculiar to himself. I
saw him step over a bunch of babies playing in the mud at the corner of
the court. He turned that corner into the street. I went in and shut
the door.
Delia Beaseley was out for the entire forenoon, but Jane, who had
returned from her two weeks vacation, was upstairs. I had plenty of
time to think, to feel. I must have sat there in the back room for an
hour or more, then the front door bell rang again.